Provisions Follow the Man
Imperceptible baby wails find no home
in such closets of grand illusion,
a drafting table angled to meet the rising sun;
I have never been a morning person, but others seem
to have mastered the more sleepless of arts among us,
the dandy walkers and muslin swaddled,
humming showerheads of the kempt green lawn;
provisions follow the man: this is most true of certain men
and uncertain provisions best I can tell
and now that you have deciphered my leanings
I’m guessing you’ll want to talk about gravity now:
figure me for the fink – a great denier of everything,
even myself.
‘There in the snow, tiny footprints’
Beyond furrier or trapper,
seemingly branded into the cold –
there in the snow, tiny footprints,
trailing off down a gulch toward a fortress
of conifers, fallen cones and tart needles
scattered like a child’s game of Jacks;
I see my breath, another ailing lungful,
the falsity of blue sky Januarys:
Stop there – another unseen agent
of primal forest demands.
‘Such silences, I have come through’
Grateful though he is, eternally so;
such expressions remain beyond purview,
drought-stricken sea beds know his gullible silences,
that pause before roaring street lights spill back to life:
austere, circumspect, painfully retreated;
spectres primed for thoughtless dream, the heeded abysmal –
“seen not heard,” as consecutive wards demand;
a muted ball of manners,
but find a surveyor for such gnarled lands you will not
for no one wants to name the house mouse
lest you mould away in a pile of
sweaty cheese.
Dream
It was all a dream.
I have a dream.
I had a dream.
It was all a dream.
It was all a dream.
It was all a dream.
I want to scream.
It was all a dream.
Hydra
as
many
interests
as
heads.
Author Biography: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Setu, GloMag, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
